


A Disorderly Kind of Education

by spycandy



Series: Coeurville [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Long Distance Relationships, Needlework, School teaching, Women's education
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:59:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ninon continues teaching - and learning - in Coeurville</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Disorderly Kind of Education

“But Mademoiselle Roitelet, did he really faint because he thought that you had died?” asked Lise, as she helped to tidy up the charcoal sticks that were scattered around the schoolroom after the drawing class was finished. “That’s so _romantic_.”

“Whoever told you that?” Ninon’s voice was still rough from illness. Although she hated being silenced by her own traitorous body, even temporarily, she had been glad to hand over all teaching duties to the visiting drawing master for the afternoon.

“Dr Begnaud’s maid Mae. She’s my best friend although she’s always so busy now that she’s working for the doctor. Anyway, she said your Athos is a king’s musketeer, who sees the royal family all the time at court. Oh! Is that where you met? It makes sense, with you being so ladylike.”

And there she thought she’d been playing such a convincing part as a woman of no particular rank. She tried to clear her painful throat to come up with an answer, but it seemed young Lise was quite willing to fill in the details for herself.

“Marie told us about how you had married in secret and your family disapproved of him because of being a soldier rather than a nobleman - even though he’s one of the elite royal guards - which is why they sent you away from Paris. Oh, I’m _so_ glad he found you again. He must love you ever so much.”

Well, thought Ninon, that did explain why the townsfolk were so relaxed about Athos staying with her. Even given the distraction of the fever outbreak, everyone had seemed remarkably sanguine about their unchaperoned schoolmistress taking in a lover.

Cunning Marie. Ninon didn’t think for one moment that the elderly widow actually believed the story she had spread. But Marie was an intelligent woman who had lived a dull life shackled to a Coeurville winemaker and she had been Ninon’s best defender from the day the schoolhouse opened. At first the only girl pupils allowed to attend classes had been Marie’s own granddaughters, but gradually others had been persuaded that learning their letters and numbers could make a woman a better helpmate to her husband.

Ninon hated using that argument, almost as much as she hated the idea of lying to Lise about being married, when the institution remained so repugnant to her. The temptation to tell the truth was not insignificant. At 15 years old, Lise herself was already engaged to marry Monsieur Petit, who had a good business making and selling plain, functional furniture and seemed pleasant enough. But the girl’s horizons were so narrow, she might as well have been raised in a ravine.

She could read and write well enough by Coeurville standards, and only came to the school for drawing lessons, although she didn’t have any discernible artistic talent. However, she always stayed late to help clear up and chatter with the schoolmistress, and although her conversation tended to the gossipy, Ninon could not help but wonder whether the sweet girl on some level itched to learn more about the world.

Another day, when her throat hurt less, she would have to test that ground. But perhaps Lise was not quite ready for something so radical. She should start with smaller new ideas and work up to the idea that until the law said that marriage was an equal partnership based on both love and respect, it wasn’t worth considering.

“Will he be able to come again soon?” asked Lise, who had prattled on without much involvement in the conversation on Ninon’s part so far.

“I’m not sure,” she croaked. “I hope so.” She let Marie’s story go unchallenged.

***

To her delight, it was less than three weeks after Athos’s departure when the next book parcel arrived.

Aemilia Lanyer. Even though Ninon strongly suspected that finding appropriate books to send was now more than ever a joint mission between Athos, Alain and Aramis, she was pleased with their choice. There were so few French women whose writings were ever printed, but at least this Englishwoman had got her poetry published. Although English wasn’t her favourite language to read, she had owned a copy… before.

In fact, she suddenly realised, she had owned _this copy_ before. She opened the cover to be sure and there on the page was the Larroque coat of arms.

Somehow Athos and his friends had found it and saved it for her. Of all the things she had had to leave behind when she was permitted to take away one small trunk, of all the jewellery, the art, the family heirlooms, she couldn’t think of anything she would rather have back than her books.

He really was not at all what she had expected when she had first flirted with him, partly as an attempt to distract him from the search for Fleur and partly because it was true that he had attracted and intrigued her. 

The ladies at court all had their favourites among the men who stood in silence at every grand occasion. The idea that the musketeers were prepared to lay down their lives in their defence at a moment’s notice gave them a certain advantage over the foppish nitwits who fawned around the king much of the time. But it was the fresh-faced and cheerful ones who got the most admiration.

For the most part, whenever she had watched him at dull formal events, Athos had looked appropriately stern for one charged with the safety of those present. But on the happiest of days, when guarding celebrations, she had always thought there was real sadness in his eyes. Amid the gaudy artificiality of a world built on privilege at the expense of so many, it was refreshing to see someone else not giddy on it.

Now she never wanted to see such sorrow in his eyes again. 

***

_Notes on the education of women in a provincial French town, by Ninon ~~de Larroque~~ Roitelet_

“Although many of the young women of Coeurville are entirely illiterate, they are not without real and admirable knowledge, often passed down from mothers to daughters. 

“In their jolly, colourful kitchen gardens, they have discovered through experimentation, and what appears to be sound scientific method, which plants love shade and which thrive only in sunshine. Even those who must use their fingers to do basic arithmetic are capable of managing household accounts and ensuring that the contents of a larder are divisible by the number of days they must last. 

“And yet, few have any notion of Coeurville’s place in France or France’s place in the wider world. While the townsmen and their older sons have almost all travelled at least as far as Orleans on some business or other, few of the women or girls have any sense that what lies beyond this one town and the neighbouring villages has any relevance for their lives. Mountains, the ocean, Paris are all equally extraordinary concepts here…”

Ninon laid down her pen, aware that the candlelight was running out and that her writing was rambling. She wasn’t really sure what it was that she wanted to say, other than that the women of Coeurville were resourceful, clever people who still were not being given the chance they deserved.

***

“If you would but still your chattering tongue woman…”

Ninon snorted an appalled laugh at Dr Begnaud’s teasing. The doctor’s words carried no real menace. A widower with two daughters grown and married, he was plainly far too comfortable with the world as it was to actively support any fight for real equality, but he regarded her stance as entertaining rather than abhorrent. Sometimes that was the best you could hope for.

“I am serious though. You do need to rest your voice,” he said, after peering at her throat. “You had a nasty illness and every day you talk yourself hoarse in front of your pupils. It will not recover if you keep on overstraining it so. Perhaps you could teach the quieter and more womanly arts, like needlework, for a change.” 

“You would not say so if you had ever seen my embroidery.” Her voice was indeed once again reduced to a whisper. “But really, how worthwhile is adding yet another stitched flower to the world?”

“Now there speaks a women raised surrounded by other people’s fine work. Look around, how many stitched flowers do you see in here?”

Ninon looked around the consulting room. On a unused chair in the corner there was one worn cushion with neatly sewn daisies.

“My Anne-Marie made that when she was just 12 and I treasure it still. She has a real skill for it. In fact, if she could bring the baby with her, she’d probably love to teach your pupils sewing once in a while, useful stuff as well as decorative.”

Ninon acknowledged the point and the kindness of the idea - even if Anne-Marie’s time had just been volunteered without her presence. “You never know, I might learn something myself,” she croaked. 

Dr Begnaud winced at the sound. “Mae!” he called through the door. “Could you bring some throat tonic in for Mademoiselle Roitelet? And are there any of those liquorice pastilles left?”

“Sorry sir, we’re almost out of the pastilles,” said Mae as she entered the room a few moments later carrying a bottle of tonic and a paper packet on a small tray. “I’ll have to go and get some more honey before I can start making another batch.”

“I didn’t realise that Mae was your medical assistant as well as your maid,” said Ninon.

“Hardly. The practice is not prosperous enough to support an assistant,” insisted Dr Begnaud, but the way that Mae coloured at the comment suggested the girl had indeed been carrying out many of an assistant's tasks in addition to the housework. Employing a woman in such a role would be a great shock to many of his patients.

“And, after all, your school came to town too late for her - a doctor’s assistant must be able to read both French and Latin you know. Don’t be alarmed, she knows the ingredient jars by heart, and mixes that tonic better than any ambitious young man would.”

“If she would like, and if you could spare her, I could tutor her a little in reading,” suggested Ninon. 

The doctor looked at his maid and raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“Oh yes,” said Mae. “Yes Mademoiselle, I would like that very much.”

“Well now, let’s see,” said Dr Begnaud. “If you rest your throat and sew me a flower, I’ll give Mae some time off each week for lessons.”

Perhaps she could hope for more from people after all.

***

It was a musket. Kind of. If you knew that that was what it was supposed to be. And were looking at it the right way up.

Her first embroidered handkerchief had, of course, gone to Dr Begnaud, who had laughed long and hard at her efforts at a sunflower and said that he now understood why she had become an intellectual.

But Anne-Marie was a patient teacher and keen to carry on offering classes even though Ninon’s voice was now fully recovered. Even some of the boys’ parents agreed that sewing was a useful skill for them to learn. Ninon had to set a good example to the class, so she had embarked on her second handkerchief.

Aramis had quietly warned her, during his few days stay under quarantine in Coeurville, to avoid ever giving flowers, especially forget-me-nots to Athos. “Bad memories,” he had said, refusing to give her the details. Athos didn’t seem like a flowery handkerchief person anyway. Or any kind of handkerchief, really, but he was getting this one, with embroidered guns, and an added personal touch.

“Have you ever even seen a gun, Mademoiselle?” asked Lise, peering at the work in Ninon’s hands when she had finished tidying the classroom once again. “The proportions are all wrong. See, that part there should fit against the shoulder - your musketeer would need impossibly long arms to fire this. 

“Of course, I can think of some modifications they should make to the standard issue models and some of the recent developments abroad are interesting although I’ve only seen father’s drawings, but... Oh here, let me fix it for you.”

***

_Notes on the Education of Women in a Provincial French Town, by Ninon Roitelet_

“The women of Coeurville learn where they can. Marie, a widow of advanced years, sits at the back of a classroom full of infants and studies basic geometry. It is unlikely to be of much practical use in her daily life now, but she says she has waited quite long enough to understand how the world works.

“Anne-Marie, a mother with young children, sits and reads my botany books while her sewing class complete their work. At first she wanted to copy the illustrations for embroidery patterns, but now, she says, the text is fascinating.

“Mae, a girl who expected to be doomed to the drudgery of domestic service, learns something of medicine from her master and comes to me whenever she can to learn the reading and writing that should have been the birthright of anyone with such intelligence. Hopefully one day her knowledge will openly serve the people of Coeurville.

“And Pierrette, who is only small, comes to school each day and absorbs everything I can teach her, everything Anne-Marie can teach her and perhaps one day, everything Mae can teach her...”

It seemed a shame to leave out Lise’s secret study of international weaponry, but if she intended to seek out a publisher for these writings then, as things turned out, perhaps the world was not quite ready for Lise.

***

**An Epilogue in Paris**

“Parcel for Athos,” called out Captain Treville as he entered the courtyard, and there was a small cheer from the men gathered there. While the source of the musketeer’s ongoing series of small literary gifts was only known to his superior officer and immediate friends, even the newest recruits had realised that the ensuing good mood would stand them in good stead during the day’s training.

The parcel was small and softer than a book ought to be.

“What is it?” asked d’Artagnan, peering over Athos’s shoulder once it was unwrapped. “Some kind of mythological beast?”

“Idiot,” said Athos. “It’s crossed muskets, see?”

It was a thoughtful, if not skillful, gift although it seemed an unusual one from Ninon, who had previously expressed the opinion that sewing only took up good reading time. But the muskets, he noticed, were not the only stitching. Embroidered around the end of the cloth, in almost invisible white thread, he read the words, “It’s never too late to learn new things.”

And that, he thought, was very true indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who asked for more after An Anatomy of the Human Heart. I felt bad for literally taking away Ninon's voice in that fic, so she gets her own story here.


End file.
